Family Portrait - Tobi Alfier
On-Camera:
They are not happy,
not even the baby.
They are frozen in time,
not like the peeling
wallpaper behind them,
ticking off the years
with nonchalant
carelessness.
She, of the Priscilla
Presley hair and he,
movie-star handsome;
both of them
uncomfortable in that
first-generation
immigrant way.
They do not hold hands,
affection is not present
in this picture. The older
son tries to pull away.
Off-Camera:
You can smell
the spaghetti sauce
on the stove, know
the photographer
has a cigarette burning,
the ash grows longer
as he tries for a smile.
They are late for pathetic
jobs, for pathetic pay.
His mother is late to
watch the kids. She
finally emerges from
the bedroom, sweat stains
in her armpits, nylons
rolled down around swollen
ankles, sensible shoes.
Past and Present
Their history is written
in the same matter-of-fact
way he puts his hand
on the shoulder of his
five-year-old to greet him.
This was no picture-book
romance. This was a borrowed
dress, an office exchange
of vows, one wilting lily
and back to the apartment
they could now all share.
Only in the odd open-window
humidity do they feel a stir
of heart-memory, of desire.
They shout in two languages,
rapid-fire joke in English,
proposition with raised eyebrows
behind bent backs,
make love in silence.
A can of grease by the stove,
spray bottle on the ironing board –
one of two nice shirts always
washed, the other one worn.
A few pennies for ice cream,
self-conscious hug for the son.
They are clean, stiff, poor
and worn as the shirts.
Future
It snows.
They get a blue canary
and name it Needles.
The old woman dies.
They discover that her
name was really something
else, and that she had another
husband before the one
they called “Poppa”.
And that she had a brother.
The building across from them
gets boarded up, veiled windows
create a sanctuary for homeless
souls and the imagination of the
now 12-year-old. They never
own a car, never fly on an airplane.
They never buy linens from a department
store, and never again speak the old
language at home. The sauce
is always on the stove, the smiles
always just out of reach, and shoes
are always sensible.
Originally published by Penumbra, of Cal State Stanislaus, in 2012
Tobi Alfier’s credits include Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Cholla Needles, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Louisiana Literature, Permafrost, Ragaire, and Washington Square Review. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com)
